


Gladiolus

by mstigergun



Series: Inglorious [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, side characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You know,” Leonid says, as he and Basten stand in the very center of the dining room, corpses strewn about them, “I’d have to say that </i>secret cultists who practice blood magic<i> constitute my very least favourite type of surprise.”</i></p><p>The Herald sends Leonid on a mission to play nice with some nobles. Incidentally, Leonid spends a great deal of time in the company of an infuriatingly handsome Qunari, which is when things get rather too complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gladiolus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enviouspride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviouspride/gifts).



> Prompted by [enviouspride](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com): Leonid/Basten and gladiolus (you pierce my heart). More of [these two](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com/tagged/otp%3A-fix-you) and also [Basten](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com/tagged/basten-adaar) over on her blog!

**Gladiolus**   _(you pierce my heart)_

*

When first the Herald arranges a meeting with Leonid, he expects –

Well, one of several scenarios seems possible. First, that the Herald is smitten. One need only possess a set of eyes, after all. Second, that the Herald is _less_ than smitten with Leonid’s – growing reputation in their foul little village. Third, that finally the Herald has realized Leonid’s singular worth to the Inquisition in its fledgling days.

As it turns out, it’s more the third than the first two, though Leonid has yet to give up on the notion that he’s made some sort of… _alluring_ impression.

“I understand that your family has a number of connections with the nobility in Ferelden,” the Herald says, quiet and steady in the sort of way one expects saints to be. Even reluctant saints. “We’re in need of connections. Josephine has prepared a docket of families we would like you to visit – to see if alliance is a possibility. We would know where we have friends. And where we do not.”

Leonid shifts, crossing his arms. Because, as lovely as it is to be acknowledged for anything beyond his ability to _shoot_ things from a great distance, he tends to only take on tasks at which he’ll excel. Excellence in all things is his motto, and all things usually extends to _finding warm bodies for his bed_ and _drinking a great deal more than one could reasonably expect for his size and build_ that, though not slight, does often pale in comparison to some of the more – robust among Cullen’s numbers.

“You do realize,” he says after staring down the Herald for a length of time he has to consider a victory, even if the Herald only looks slightly confused, “that my strengths do _not_ include wandering around the wilderness or being very tactful.”

The Herald’s lips twitch. “Yes, that’s something of which we’re aware. Though of course we’ve every confidence in your tact now that you have an understanding of what’s at stake. Your name will grant you entrance into houses that others among our numbers might only dream of.”

Leonid sighs, then, loudly. Shoots the Herald a charming grin – after all, number one would still be an achievement indeed and if there’s a chance his charm might still land home, well. He’ll risk that much. “I should suggest, then, that those _others_ might try to broaden that which they dream of. Poppy, perhaps? That does tend to encourage dreams of a rather more interesting sort.”

To the Herald’s credit, Leonid’s bluster is met with a smile. “All the same,” the Herald says, “your help will be deeply appreciated. As to your safety –”

Leonid jerks his chin down, reaching and taking the stack of papers from the Herald’s hand. “Sacha, I take it. Though you may need to wrangle your _magister_ – I don’t expect he’ll be pleased. They’ve been making eyes at each other for weeks. However _vile_ the courtship process, it still has effects, and I’d rather not be set on fire, thank you.”

It’s then that the Herald laughs – _laughs_ , of all things! – and explains, in syllables as tidy and precise as the practice formations Cullen’s soldiers make outside the main gate, that Leonid will be travelling with one of the Qunari mercenaries from the second company that’s just joined up.

“They _are_ good at bludgeoning, aren’t they,” he huffs – in truth pleased. Leonid would rather avoid getting snagged in the little knot of wretched _feelings_ still untangling itself in his heart where Sacha is concerned. He’ll merrily have _uncomplicated_ and, ideally, _horned and towering_.

Still, the Herald looks bemused. An expression certainly not suited to inspiring religious devotion, but, then, that often seems to be the Herald’s agenda. One hardly wears _those_ kinds of clothes or runs about the countryside with _those_ sorts of people if one has the lofty goal of sainthood at the forefront of one’s mind. “Bludgeoning, yes, but we’ve also chosen Basten because of the increasing presence of the Venatori. We wouldn’t risk sending you without the tools necessary to unearth any magical schemes afoot.”

It’s then that Leonid stills, fingers stiff around the stack of papers that hold his own carefully designed and constructed _mission_ for the Inquisition. He narrows his eyes, as near a suspicious glare as he dares when looking upon the chosen agent of Andraste herself – however unlikely in appearance. And attitude. “How do you mean?”

“He’s a mage. In addition to being good at _smashing_ things into oblivion. Don’t worry: you’ll be in excellent hands.”

*

As it turns out, he _is_ in excellent hands. Particularly skilled hands. Surprisingly and delightfully _adroit_ hands. That, incidentally, are also good at murdering things or people angling to kill Leonid first.

Ingloriously squeamish though Leonid may be about killing people _himself_ , he remains –

Well. _Intrigued_ and rather _impressed_ when someone else does so rather neatly.

Though the first little group of bandits that Basten absolutely cuts a swath through on their trip end up dying deaths that could, under no circumstance, be classified as _neat_.

Leonid shoots one in the knee. To contribute, at least in part.

“Well!” he offers, once the last bandit has collapsed into a heap of ash. “That was _something_.”

Basten, gasping after air, his impossibly blue eyes wild, grins. “I _am_ impressive, aren’t I?”

Leonid huffs, shouldering his bow. “Maker, you call _that_ impressive. My dear man, I was merely being polite. You’ll have to work a great deal harder to impress me, I’m afraid. I’ve spent a substantial amount of time in the company of a greatly accomplished warrior and his remarkably talented mage sister. And so there are two fronts on which you can – and _will_ – fall short, unless you demonstrably improve.”

A laugh in return. Basten shrugs his massive shoulders and tips his head toward the horizon. “There’s plenty more ground to cover before we make camp. Let’s see if I can impress you by then.”

As it so happens, he _can_ and he _does_ by showing rather more initiative than Leonid is accustomed to. But then, Leonid thinks dizzily after he’s left an impressive trail of marks of his own down Basten’s neck and memorized the precise shape of his companion’s mouth when he’s lost in pleasure, Leonid’s reputation precedes him. Easy to be bold when one’s very nearly sure of a positive reception.

It’s something almost unfair, Leonid soon learns, to think of Basten – that his boldness comes only when the outcomes seems favourable. Scratch that, it _is_ unfair because, loathe though Leonid may be to admit it, it’s possible that Basten outdoes him when it comes to courage. To bright insistence, to _venturing forth_ into the broad, broad world.

Not necessarily a difficult task, to outclass Leonid, but still not an easy thing to admit. Granted, Leonid likes to act only in realms in which he has demonstrated proficiency: namely, fucking, drinking and shooting, in precisely that order. Being _undeservedly cruel_ might be a distant fourth.

Basten, on the other hand, appears to excel at everything. It is, without question, a disgusting trait: this _competence_ of his.

Basten guides them through the wilderness. He scouts for an ideal camping location. He sets up the blighted tent and somehow – Maker preserve him, Leonid can’t figure it out – manages to make food that tastes halfway decent when all they have is a single pot and a _campfire_.

“It’s blood magic, I assume. _This_ ,” Leonid says one night around a mouthful of food that has no right to taste nearly this good: like butter and salt and tender, lovingly-simmered meat with some unnamed variety of herbs.

“Oh yes,” says Basten, staring down at Leonid from his rather impressive height, though they’re perched side-by-side on a log Basten dragged to the campfire. _Dragged_. With his _bare hands_ , like some sort of – well, Qunari. “Sure,” he continues, eyes bright in the firelight, “you can enjoy the stew now – but, come the darkest hour of the night, you’ll wake up to a _foul ritual_. Unspeakably evil.”

Leonid blinks at him pleasantly. “There are other things I’d rather wake up to, truth be told. If I’m to be woken at all, which is already not an _ideal_ circumstance.”

So it’s not that it’s terribly unexpected that they start sleeping together. And, certainly, no one in Haven would be remotely surprised, because it’s _Leonid_ and he’s alone in the woods with a shockingly handsome Qunari who has perfect shoulders and sharp cheekbones and a mouth that is _far_ too clever. Of course they start sleeping together.

No, a false start. It’s not that it’s remotely unexpected that they start _fucking_. In fact, it’s the _sleeping together_ that’s entirely the problem. One that is entirely unexpected, as it turns out.

And of course it weighs on Leonid’s mind because, Maker be damned or praised or whatever flavour the moment demands, he has _rules_ that he knows he ought to be following. It’s just that those same rules tend to evaporate like morning dew when a certain Qunari wanders into the picture, which is often.

Leonid suspects it has everything to do with the size of him. Basten is hard to miss, so it’s only natural that he – blots out Leonid’s good sense. However meager that offering may be.

He’s _good_ at finding people to fill his bed, and has always been better still at making sure they don’t stay _in_ it.

Basten – poses a problem.

It starts after they’ve completed their first tour of official Inquisition duty, making a merry little circuit to a host of incredibly dull and stupid noble houses in Ferelden. The monotony of the whole thing – _oh why yes, of course Andraste has chosen the Herald! we’ll make vague allusions to promises but offer nothing concrete, now would you like a canape, sir, while we ogle your towering Qunari friend?_ – is broken only at their very last visit to a summer estate outside of Highever. Though the extent to which Highever ever _sees_ summer is entirely up for debate, the estate itself is a welcome relief from Haven, at the very least.

Or so it appears at first. Half the mud, true, but – as it turns out – _double_ the blood magic.

“You know,” Leonid says, as he and Basten stand in the very center of the dining room, corpses strewn about them, “I’d have to say that _secret cultists who practice blood magic_ constitute my very least favourite type of surprise.”

“Hm.” A vague sound in Basten’s throat. He twists, looking down at Leonid. His hair, damnably whiter than Leonid’s and twisted up into a high knot, is stained with errant blood – most likely from when he used his _mind_ to _eviscerate_ one of the cultists.

Leonid would be impressed if he weren’t slightly suspicious of the whole thing. The entire _magic_ bit.

Though maybe he’s impressed despite it. Perhaps because of it. Slightly.

“What’s your count?” Basten asks, as they wander from the dining room, pausing in the vestibule to use coats and curtains to mop at least some of the viscera from their limbs.

Leonid stiffens for a moment, as he’s daubing a stringy piece of sinew from his vest. “My _count_ ,” he repeats. At the back of his neck, heat prickles – the very start of a flush that will be entirely unbecoming if he doesn’t tamp it down.

A conversation he would rather not have _again_ , because the whole _hello yes I seem to be remarkably incapable of actually murdering anyone, oh shockingly handsome warrior_ thing has not worked well for him in the past. In fact, he doubts it could work well for anyone. Anywhere. Especially those in the employ of the Herald of Andraste, on a mission sanctified by the Maker and –

Leonid finishes scrubbing the blood from his leathers – at least for now – and takes off across the carefully tended gardens. A little too manicured, he realizes belatedly. Blood magic, no doubt. Virgin sacrifices for the shrubs, perhaps whole hosts of nugs for the perennial beds.

Basten’s legs are long, though, in addition to being muscular, and he keeps stride easily with Leonid’s near frantic gait. One that’s certainly, in any case, _undignified_.

“You’ve never killed anyone,” says the Qunari.

Leonid sniffs, throws him a look as pointed as a dagger. “I most certainly _have_ ,” he says. His feet now move beneath him at a pace even Leonid can’t keep up, so he pretends to pause at the grand gate to check for more cultists, peering in the work rooms and looting a few unguarded chests – really, what use are medals of honour and half-knots to Venatori anyway? – to divert Basten’s attention.

“I wouldn’t have expected it, the way you run your mouth,” Basten continues when they’re well on their way away from the estate. As if not a moment has passed.

And though he says the words in a damnably good-natured way, Leonid glares at him just the same. “Well, you’d be right not to _expect it_ , as I have _clearly_ killed many a person. Feel free to ask Sacha when we get back: he’ll tell you, plain as day, the number of apostates I’ve put down. And I would keep that at the forefront of that thick skull of yours. I’m especially skilled at dispatching _apostates_.”

Basten’s lips turn up at the corners. Infuriatingly. “Which is why you managed to shoot _five_ in the knee, another _three_ in the shoulder, and slow the whole lot of them down with caltrops.”

“They were cultists,” Leonid says, fingers twitching by his sides. “It’s _different_.”

“Ah, yes,” says Basten. “Apostates. Much easier to murder than Venatori cultists.”

“It’s the black robes,” Leonid deadpans. “Makes finding a decent mark _much_ trickier and, skilled as I may be, Cullen has yet to adequately outfit his training dummies in ominous robes and pointy hats. So. Hardly my fault.”

Which is how, in a roundabout way, Leonid ends up shooting Basten.

*

First, however, there’s the issue with _sleeping_. The _sleeping with_. They travel through the remainder of the day, stopping only to scrub the last of the blood from their knuckles because, sumptuous as those curtains were, they failed spectacularly as a means to remove blood from the creases of one’s knuckles. When they finally reach a destination that’s relatively level and positioned – well, placed in such a location so as Basten approves it, so Leonid can only assume it’s not too dangerous and perhaps aligned to some magical Qunari star symbol – Leonid’s tired enough to collapse on a soggy log and stare blankly up at the sky overhead.

A day of Venatori agents is one thing. A day whereupon he’s found himself yet _again_ unable to actually _murder_ someone is another thing entirely. How certain he was, when he drew his bow after the treachery of the Messina family was revealed, that he’d end the lot of them. He’d catapulted backwards, notched an arrow, trained it right on the throat of one of the cultists and –

His hand had dipped of its own accord, and the arrow found a perfect home in the man’s thigh.

Each and every damned time. And just when he’d feel his nerve returning, heart hammering against his eardrums, the shaking of his hands steadying –

Why, there’d go Basten, like a walking and talking battering ram. Setting someone on fire one moment, freezing someone else the next, and then _smashing_ yet another _villain_ with his sword or with his _head_.

Disgusting.

Of course, it makes _sense_ that Basten would be so utterly proficient at killing: he’s a mercenary. It’s what he _does_. It’s why the Herald insisted that it be _Basten_ who escort Leonid all through Ferelden – though, of course, they only covered a loop to the north east, though it felt like they’d walked the entire damned nation.

Basten has a bold and easy confidence. Perfect competence.

All that, and he’s an _exceedingly_ good lay.

Leonid sniffs. Already, Basten’s managed to put the tent up beneath some towering trees, which is just as well. The sky, now deepening toward purple twilight tones, threatens rain, and Leonid has no desire to shiver in the cold and wet all night.

He pushes his way into the tent, ready to flop down on his bedroll and take a moment to _breathe_ while Basten makes some sort of food and gets the fire sorted. As soon as the oiled fabric flap is pushed out of the way, though, Leonid draws short.

In place of two bedrolls, there’s just _one_.

Leonid barrels out into the camp, thoughts bright with fury. _Outrage_. “You,” he snarls, striding over to stand in front of Basten and jab a finger at the Qunari’s broad – and _perfectly formed_ – chest. “How very _presumptuous_.”

Basten blinks down at him. “Did _you_ want to start the fire, then?” he asks, proffering a bundle of twigs he’s been holding.

“Of course I don’t want to –” Leonid starts, then he cuts himself off. Scowls and crosses his arms tight across his chest. “I’m referring, _of course_ , to the tent, Basten.”

“The tent,” repeats the mage.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Leonid. “You seem to have mistaken _fucking_ for something else. I don’t – No one _stays the night_. You’re _in my bed_ and then _out of it_.”

He would have expected a mercenary to understand. Basten’s eyebrows shoot up and his head cocks to one side – which is, _of course_ , endearing. He still holds the soft kindling in his broad hands which, Leonid knows from experience, adroitly map the span of Leonid’s hips, each finger committing his skin to memory. Leonid in kind committing the shape of each mountain and valley of those palms to memory. It’s –

“Not staying the night is a bit challenging, Leonid,” says Basten, “when we’re sharing a tent.”

He has a point. “But the _bedrolls_ ,” Leonid starts.

“It’s not an issue,” offers Basten, dropping the kindling into a pile in the firepit he’s shaped from stone. His hands hover in the air, palms up – a placating gesture. “I’d thought to save time, since you seem to end up in _my_ bedroll every night anyway.”

A presumption borne from efficiency, then. That’s something Leonid can almost understand – and it’s not nearly so worrisome as the alternative.

“There are hardly many others to choose from,” Leonid says. Still his arms are crossed tight across his body, but already he can feel some of the tightness drawn from his shoulders, like poison from a wound.

Basten nods, as if this is sensible, and turns himself to making something materialize for dinner.

And if Leonid _does_ later end up in Basten’s bedroll, well. It’s just that the night sky has opened and rain patters down, soft, against the oiled canvas of the tent, and it’s damnably cold for being so near a purported summer estate. It’s efficient to share body heat – and Basten, who’s broad and tall and has arms like stupid _tree trunks_ , seems to run hot. He provides more than enough heat for the both of them.

“This doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Leonid breathes against Basten’s mouth. Legs pinned on either side of the Qunari’s waist. Leonid’s already half-shrugged out of his robe, which he only put on in the first place to make a point – that he didn’t need to always be _available_.

Blessedly, Basten says nothing, hands instead sliding beneath the bare fabric and planting themselves against the planes of Leonid’s hips, holding him there firmly as Leonid’s hands find purchase on his curling horns.

Basten’s fingers dig divots into Leonid’s skin, and Leonid thinks, for a moment, that he couldn’t ever be cold again – skin flushed like this, any chill air almost like another caress. He breathes a ragged little laugh against Basten’s mouth, and turns his attention away from feeling far too weak-willed to feeling –

Well. Rigid in all the ways that matter.

*

It’s the same the next night, and the night after, and even the blighted night after that: Basten doesn’t make the mistake of setting out only one bedroll, but Leonid ends up crawling in with him just the same.

He knows better. Knows that he should at least _leave_ after they’ve had their fun, but –

It’s just that Basten’s _warm_. And they’re moving toward the blighted Frostbacks, and Leonid may have sacrificed some practicality in travelling clothes for the sake of fashion.

He mentions as much to Basten, who nods sagely. “Yes,” he says, “I can see why you might make that choice. If you aren’t going to _kill_ the bandits, _dazzling_ them is an excellent alternative.”

Leonid scoffs, though of course he’s given up trying to pretend he’s a skilled and world-weary murderer. After the third protestation, it became embarrassing even for Leonid.

They continue picking their way past jagged boulders, keeping the mountain range to their right as they loop around toward home. Toward reports to the Herald and meetings with Josephine, and of _course_ everyone will want to hear about the _cultists_ and the _blood magic_. Leonid is also long overdue some serious drinking at the tavern. Basten twists and offers him a hand as they traverse some particularly ungainly rock formation, which makes Leonid consider, for a moment, even buying the mage a drink. Or two. Or –

“The key’s not to think about it,” Basten says, as Leonid scrambles up another slippery little promontory to his side. He watches Leonid with that thoughtful blue gaze of his – though it’s never too serious. Always at least a little teasing, which means that Leonid’s shoulders don’t draw up tight and he doesn’t feel his face fall into its usual glower which, though impressive, is not in the least bit flattering. “At least when you’re just beginning. Don’t hesitate. Don’t think about it. In that moment, they’re not a person – just a target.”

“Just a target, _yes_ ,” says Leonid. “But also decidedly not. Targets don’t look at you with eyes that say _please don’t kill me_. And they don’t have mothers who love them, or siblings they can’t stand but still _respect_ , or little target whelps who just sit at home, starving and wondering when _daddy’s_ coming home from work.”

Leonid pushes past his companion, nimbly skirting some cold meltwater and darting up a steep little path. He pauses to look down at Basten, who’s watching him steadily.

“Sure, everyone’s got a sad story,” Basten says, shifting his weight. Adjusting the way his stave’s strap falls across his shoulders. Behind him, the horses wait patiently.

They love him, the horses.

Another thing that irritates Leonid.

“The _sadder_ story is if _you_ end up dying instead of them. If someone you care about ends up dying instead of them. Because if you’re up against someone, they might have a family waiting at home – but that family would be just as likely to sacrifice you to their ancient dragon god as that cultist you could be killing.”

It’s almost a good point. Leonid sniffs, turning to stare out across the distance. He can make out the yawning, sickly green Breach, how it hovers above the mountains like a storm cloud. Another day’s travel, he thinks, and they’ll be at Haven again. Back in their muddy little village, running to and fro at the command of the Herald of Andraste. Trying to make something like _meaning_ when, really, very little of this whole – thing has made any sense.

Leonid’s known enough people living in the gutters to spot the problem with the idea: sometimes, people _look_ like villains, but aren’t; sometimes, people look like heroes and are decidedly not.

Still, the whole world is at war – or so it would appear. It’s being torn to pieces around them, the sky in tatters above.

There isn’t really time for nuance. Not any longer.

That night, Leonid offers to set up the tent while Basten tends to one of the horses, who’s managed to catch something in the fleshy part of its hoof. Leonid fights and fights with the damned canvas until he wrestles it into place, which he does but only because he is _stubborn_ and refuses to be bested by a scrap of fabric and some blighted poles.

When they finally retire for the evening, Basten ducking in behind Leonid, his companion freezes for a moment in the doorway. To his credit, he doesn’t _say_ anything – clever, to hold his tongue, to not ask for explanation, because that would entirely restore Leonid’s senses. Which seem to have evaporated yet again.

“I’d already spent _ages_ on the stupid _tent_ ,” Leonid hisses, turning his back to Basten as he tugs off his clothes. “This was _easier_.” Behind him, he can hear Basten pulling off his leathers. A shift in fabric, the soft rustle of bedding, and Leonid knows Basten’s crawled into bed.

The one bed.

His hands hover over the buttons on his trousers, mind circling around upon itself like a vulture waiting for something to die ingloriously. That something, Leonid thinks distantly, is likely his better judgment. And it’s been dead for awhile.

“Well, hurry up.” Basten’s voice is easy behind him, low and certain. Not shaken in the slightest. “It’s cold without you.”

And so Leonid slips out of the rest of his clothes and crawls into the bedroll, tucking himself firmly against Basten. “I hate you, of course,” he mouths against the shape of Basten’s shoulder. How his skin is so soft there when his fingers have such a delicious _rasp_ to them is beyond Leonid.

“Of course.”

“And I could kill someone.”

“You could.”

Tomorrow, he thinks, they’ll be back at Haven. And surely the Herald is close to securing the forces necessary to close the Breach. Surely, they’ve nearly reached that point. Then the world will be righted once again, and Leonid will – well, he supposes the Inquisition won’t end, not when there are still so many mad Templars and cultists and shambling undead and also _demons_ wandering hither and yon, and he would like to stay and _help_ , but he certainly won’t need _this_. A Qunari companion travelling throughout Ferelden.

For the night, though, he supposes he can bend – a few of his rules. Retroactively, as well. He gives himself permission precisely this far and no further, and looks forward – determinedly, pointedly – to being back home and to the world returning to normal.

It will be good, he tells himself firmly, to be back to the usual order of things. Even as he allows himself to enjoy, for the barest moment, the weight of Basten’s arm tucked around his shoulders. Holding him tight.

*

It’s really Basten’s fault, in the end. First, he disappears in the snowy woods – something about _curious tracks_ , to which Leonid replies, _we can pass that on to Leliana’s agents, then_ but of course the oaf doesn’t listen – and leaves Leonid to fend for himself. Even at the best of times, a questionable decision. After the trip they’ve just had, an even _more_ questionable choice.

Maker, even Leonid knows that. Will _admit_ it even about himself, despite the loud protestation of his ego. It is not a strategically sound thing to leave him on his own. That he survived in the Hinterlands after the Conclave is nothing short of a miracle; why, it’s almost enough to make him believe that Andraste also chose _him_ because, if she _hadn’t_ , surely he would have been ingloriously mauled by the first bear he met.

So Basten decides apparently that tracks are a more interesting or important or _distracting_ , perhaps, than sound decision-making, and, with a quick little smile, treks off through the woods.

Afterwards, it takes all of the span of – say, three breaths for the sky overhead to darken and the winds to pick up. Tiny particles of snow, more like sand than anything else, whip through the trees, scraping Leonid’s cheeks raw as he waits _patiently_ in the clearing where Basten has left him.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Squints overhead at the sky. The usual green of the Breach has made the storm clouds look all the more threatening. Another gust of wind bends the boughs around him, which creak and groan. Almost like screams on the horizon.

The thought sends a shudder down his spine. He hauls on the edges of his coat a little more resolutely, drawing it closer. The chill, though, is only in part due to the wind and snow; the rest of it has everything to do with a prickling sense of _danger_ inching its way up his neck.

Behind him, the horses whicker. Start prancing and dancing across the skiffs of snow, as though a predator lurks in the woods beyond. As though they too feel the buzzing anticipation of something not quite _right_.

Leonid scowls into the wind, uneasy. He tugs his scarf up to cover at least part of his face. The furious dance of the tiny snow particles almost makes a mist – though one that’s violent in its motions. Furious. Above him, the flash of feathered winds as ravens flit through the trees. They scream, shrill. Desperate.

Enough, he thinks. Strange tracks and a day turned sour. He will be prepared, has seen enough chaos and bloodshed to know that it’s always better to be _proactive_ in these matters.

He draws his bow and nocks an arrow.

This close to Haven, they should be safe – but Leonid and Basten been gone for weeks. Anything may have happened. It could be that the cultists they ran into at the Messina estate were but part of a larger invasion, one with sights on the Herald.

Any number of dangers might lay in the woods. Leonid won’t unprepared this time. He won’t be weak-willed or soft-hearted. He will do what’s necessary to ensure his _own_ survival, and the survival of his companion.

It’s like the thought is an enchantment, the feeling of an ominous threat made real. In the distance, through the haze of wind-whipped snow, Leonid can see a dark shape materializing. Unfamiliar, moving _far_ too quickly to be settling. Driving straight at him, like an arrow to a target.

Inside of his chest, his heart beats itself ragged against his ribs. _Don’t hesitate_ , Basten said.

Leonid trains an arrow on the figure. Follows it as it dips between trees, flitting from one dark trunk to another. Agile. Uncanny, almost.

_Don’t think about it. In that moment, they’re not a person – just a target._

He sucks in a short, sharp breath and looses the arrow, hands steadier than his heart. At the same moment, a gust of wind barrels down from the jagged peaks of the mountain, throwing the bolt off course.

It finds purchase still. In the distance, a loud cry.

Leonid hauls out another arrow, vision gone white. That almost hit home – would have, had the wind not –

“ _Leonid_ ,” bellows the voice.

His fingers go perfectly numb.

Oh shit.

Leonid drops his bow and bolts across the uneven ground, stumbling and tripping his way to Basten’s side – Basten, who’s dropped to the ground and presses a hand hard against his shoulder.

“You,” starts the Qunari, “ _almost killed me_.”

Around the bolt, blood leaks out, staining his worn clothes.

“Shit,” Leonid gasps, throwing himself onto the ground next to Basten. He tears his gloves off with his teeth, presses his fingers to the tear in Basten’s clothes. “For _fuck’s sake_ , we’ll get you back right away. We’ll – Maker help me, Basten, I am _so sorry_. I didn’t realize it was –”

A short sound, unfamiliar.

Leonid’s gaze flicks up, and he sees that the skin around Basten’s eyes is –

 _Crinkled_. With _laughter_.

Leonid feels his face go perfectly still.

“It was a good shot, considering,” says Basten. “Mind you, I’ve had a lot worse.” He pushes Leonid’s hands away, gentle, and then, in a practiced movement, jerks the arrow out. Immediately, his palm is pressed to the wound, which knits itself together as he pales slightly.

Right. Mage, he thinks. Still, Leonid just stares. Can’t help himself. Can’t do anything but.

“Guess you _weren’t_ kidding about killing apostates,” continues Basten, with a short sigh as his hand drops back down to his side. “Not a bad effort.”

“ _Not a bad effort_ ,” repeats Leonid, words numb in his mouth. “I – _I could have killed you_.”

“You’d have to try a lot harder than that. I’m a mage – archers _love_ to shoot at me. Excellent follow-through, though, for your first real effort.”

“I –” He bites the rest off. Leonid stands, brushing snow off his knees, fingers trembling. Overhead, some of the clouds have started to thin, the wind that rattled the skeletal trees around them a moment before died to nothing but an errant breeze. “If you hadn’t just _left_ , Basten, I wouldn’t have been forced to believe it was necessary that I defend myself. To _not think about it_ and just shoot the damned – cultist, or bandit, or _bear_.”

Basten grins up at him, foolishly, _stupidly_ pleased. Written all over those damned freckled cheeks. “And you’d have at least _scratched_ someone. It’s a good thing the Herald insisted I take you all around Ferelden. If that’s your idea of a full draw –”

“Well, next time I’ll be sure to aim at your thick _skull_ ,” Leonid spits, turning and heading back toward the horses.

“Good luck with that one! My skull’s even tougher than the rest of me!”

Leonid snatches up his bow and slips it back across his shoulders, hauling on the leads of his horse, who is now, _of course_ , waiting patiently and placidly. As though she hasn’t a care in the entire blighted world.

 _Traitor_ , he thinks furiously at her. She merely blinks and rambles after him as he takes quick, jerky steps toward Haven.

“I’ll buy you a drink, though,” Basten offers, once he catches up to Leonid. Who has had entirely enough of the wilderness, thank you very much, and is in desperate need of the tavern and of being _away_ from this _man_.

“You’d be so lucky,” snarls Leonid.

A pause, during which Leonid blinks furiously at the trees that are entirely too ominous, that obstruct lines of sight and make it easy, perhaps, to mistake a man for a – threat. This whole blighted forest can burn, Leonid thinks; it’s the only thing that stands between _him_ and _normalcy_. Well, as normal as things get when there’s a giant hole in the sky.

Leonid sniffs, jaw working.

Next to him, Basten chuckles, a kind sound meant to soothe. Reaches out and clasps a hand to Leonid’s shoulder – a quick touch, but certain. Firm. “It might be slightly more conventional for the person who’s just _pierced_ their companion with an arrow to buy the drinks, but, you know. You’re just getting started.” He looms now next to Leonid, close, and casts a dim shadow across the white snow as the clouds thin and permit a grey sunlight through.

Leonid’s gaze darts over to Basten’s hands, one of which is fastened delicately on the horse’s lead, the other – which had, for a moment, been a warm weight on his shoulder – resting easily by his side. Broad palms and strong fingers. Certain hands, which never seem to falter.

Despite himself, Leonid sighs. “One drink,” he admits. “But _no more_. You understand how detrimental all of this will be to my reputation, of course.”

“What?” asks Basten, grinning once again. “Shooting an ally?”

“No. Being with _one man_ for this amount of time. Maker, I _do_ have standards to keep up, Basten, so you understand that this will be a _drink_ and nothing more.”

Because, really, the fluttering weakness Leonid feels in his chest when he’s on the receiving end of _that_ smile – all easy charm and unthinking generosity – is already far too much. Entirely unbecoming, in fact.

It is, he supposes, what breaking the rules gets him. He knows better. Ought to know better. But – well. Perhaps he can forgive himself this much.

“We certainly couldn’t have you suffering,” Basten agrees.

A pause, Leonid feeling rather pleased with himself, and then Basten adds, as an afterthought, “After all, you’re the one who shot _me_.” He wanders in close again, nudging Leonid with his broad side.

Maker take him. Damnable man. Leonid elbows Basten in the ribs. “ _Wretch_.”

Basten laughs, a sound larger than the mountains themselves, and one that feels all the more comforting still. And, like that, they make their way back to Haven, nestled safely in the muddy embrace of the mountains. Held by snow and rock and the unsteady green sky above.

*

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Followed almost immediately by enviouspride's fic ["Resolution."](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com/post/127790278796/resolution) Do yourself a favour and have a read!


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